


Promises Kept

by Jak_the_ATAT



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Mike is a loving boyfriend, Random OC for convenience, Separation Anxiety, Vomiting, establish relatonship, kinda descriptive imagery?, my poor boy did not deserve to be tortured this much, whump!David
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jak_the_ATAT/pseuds/Jak_the_ATAT
Summary: Without Mike around, David can't help but imagine the worst will happen.
Relationships: Mike Harper/David "Section" Mason
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Promises Kept

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching BO2's campaign for the first time and love these two so much that they're torture-worthy. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Mike's not back yet.

David crosses his arms, trying hard to keep from pacing the barracks. Sure, it wasn't uncommon for missions to last longer than expected, but this feels too long. Too long to be some minor mishap. His eyes dart towards the door multiple times as his foot taps the ground. In between, he stares at the clock he keeps at the head of his bed, watching the hands crawl another two minutes.

And Mike is still not back.

His foot tapping intensifies. David rubs his hands together, suddenly cold despite sweat slicking his palms. He swallows in hopes of quenching his dry throat but no saliva comes to the rescue. The barrack's walls keeping caving in ever so slowly.

Where is Mike?

Unable to stay still, David stands and begins pacing. Mike would be fine. He'll come back with a few little scrapes from doing something stupid and let David take care of him. He'll tease the younger man, kissing him or tickling him until they made out.

Mike would come back okay. Nothing more, nothing less.

But what if Mike wasn’t okay? What if he got shot? What if he was stabbed in the neck and can’t move again? What if he’s captured and being tortured right now?

What if he’s dead?

 _'Stop it, stop it, stop it,'_ David thinks, curling his hand to a fist and bopping himself on the head a few times. Like that would help his growing headache. He laps the room faster, muttering to himself. "He'll make it back. He promised. Mike always keeps his promises." Another glance at the clock. Mike should have been back ten minutes ago. "He'll make it back. He promised."

But what if he doesn’t?

What if he's bleeding out?

Calling out for help?

And no one there to hear?

Nausea suffocates David until he has to sit down, hugging his acidic stomach. He should have been in charge of the operation. He should have at least been on the field with Mike or worked with overwatch. Not this day-off bullshit. Not when Mike isn't here to share it with him.

What if Mike got hit by a .50 cal? And his arm was blown off?

"He'll make it back." He closes his eyes and imagines Mike with only a few scrapes, ones that he could cover with a band-aid and let Mike tease him for using the colorful children's ones instead of normal band-aids.

Then again, rarely did anyone come home from a mission with a few basic scratches.

If they even made it home.

No, Mike would be fine. "He promised."

His stomach stabs him and David doubles over, curling his toes. The spasm isn't long but it knocks the wind clear from his lungs. Another glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes have passed.

And Mike's still not back.

Weakly, he stands again and walks around the same area. His stomach won't stop threatening to throw its contents up. His head spins, slowly losing concept of which direction is which. He also has to pee really bad, but he's been to the bathroom twice in the past hour. He can wait.

Karma kicks in, and not the woman. As soon as his brain says that, his stomach lurches. He sprints to the bathroom, barely making it before puking into the toilet.

Thank fuck no one else is in here. This is ridiculous. How the fuck is he in his 40s and this anxious over one person? Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

He pukes again.

Now he feels worse. Not because he needs to vomit more but because his headache went from a dull ache to white pain. It hurts to breathe and his usual tricks to keep himself from hyperventilating aren't working. He flushes away his lunch and stumbles to his feet, resting his weight against the stall's wall as he tries to ground himself.

What if Mike has passed out on the field and can't be retrieved?

 _'Stop it, stop it, stop it.'_ "He'll make it back. He promised."

He finally finds his center of gravity and makes his way over to the sink where he can splash his face with cold water and wash his mouth out. His stomach already feels queasy again. Half his vision is blocked by his headache, and he can't stop his hands from shaking. David staggers back to the barracks and sits on his bed, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. He looks at the clock.

30 minutes. Too long. Mike has to be hurt. But how hurt? A simple bullet graze? Or a mortar in his face? Was he even here in the _Obama’s_ medbay? What if his VTOL went down and knocked him out? Or he was dead?

David lays down, hoping this would make his stomach feel better. It doesn’t. Breathing becomes harder. He can't get his aching jaw to stop clenching. And when he rolls to his side, his eyes water. He rubs them, pushing his hand into them to force the tears out early so he doesn't have to think about them later. Instead, it worsens his headache and elevates his need to cry.

He sits back up. Some things got better. His tears are easier to control now and he can breathe through his mouth more efficiently. His jaw loosens with gravity and his teeth stop hurting.

What doesn’t get better are his thoughts. Another glance at the clock reveals 35 minutes have passed since Mike was supposed to come back. Something must be wrong.

He hugs his stomach, dizzy and on the verge of puking. Squirming does nothing but remind him he needs to pee again. Or did he forget to go earlier? He can't remember.

This time, he ignores it because he's too afraid to leave the room. Maybe Mike's okay. He'd walk through the barrack door and David would be here to greet him. That's right. Mike would be fine. That is, if he is well enough to walk. Or if he can walk...

He stands and hits his head again with his first. _'Stop it stop it stop it.'_

Around and around the room he goes, talking to himself. "He'll make it back," he says as an image of Mike's bloody body rests before his eyes. "He promised." Mike can’t get up, his leg pinned down under the VTOL on fire. "Mike always keeps his promises..." Another glance at the clock. 40 minutes. In his head, Mike screams for help just before the VTOL explodes. And when David finally reaches him, only Mike's pinned leg remains intact.

David stops in the middle of the room, clasping his hands over his nose and mouth as tears burn his eyes. He can't see past his migraine. He needs to throw up again. His lungs beg for new air. His fingers sting, cold to the touch, and yet his palms still bear sweat. His body trembles uncontrollably, making his teeth clench together.

And in between it all, imagines of Mike being tortured and killed play on repeat in his head.

_'Stop it stop it stop it.'_

Through the blur, he makes his way to the bathroom and throws up again. He isn't alone this time and is forced to answer someone's questions about his health as steady as his voice allows. "Just a bad lunch," he says. He leaves as quickly as he can muster, embarrassed. Which doesn't help his situation.

Back in the room, his eyes find the clock as he sits down. 45 minutes. No doubt Mike is dead. Someone would have come to tell him if Mike was in the medbay, injured. Everyone knew how anxious he was without Mike around. If he wasn't so useful on the field, David would have been kicked from the military long ago. Over the past week, it’s gotten worse. Now, if he and Mike aren't on the same floor as each other, he worries. And no matter how much Mike says he doesn't see it as a problem, David knows he's a burden.

And he hates it.

His stomach lurches and he nearly throws up. "H-He'll make it b-back..." he says through dry heaves. "H-he p...p... promised..."

Footsteps thump in the hall, too assertive to be Mike's easy gait. Someone is coming to tell him Mike is hurt. Or dead. Or someone is going to kidnap or kill him and he'll never see Mike again. David reaches under his pillow for his knife only to knock it onto the floor. His foggy eyes may have seen it as he frantically searches, but his dazed brain never registers the item.

The steps stop outside the door. David jumps to his feet, preparing for the worst. A thought crosses his mind: what if it's his superiors? Should he try to appear presentable?

The door opens. And Mike walks in.

"Jesus fuck, what happened to you?"

David can't even reply. Relief washes over him, draining itself through his tears as he sprints across the room to hug Mike. "Whoa whoa whoa, hey!" Mike embraces him and holds him close. "What's got you so worked up? I told you I'd be back around this time."

He can't catch his breath enough to speak, so David gestures towards the clock by his bed. Mike wraps an arm around David's shoulders and works his way over. "Oh shit." He picks up the clock and winds it back an hour. "We never adjusted it for daylight's savings."

"D-Daylight's savings...?" David manages to croak.

"Yeah, yesterday." Mike looks at the clock on the wall above the door. "That one's right. So really, I'm back early."

Now he feels stupid. Stupid for getting all up and Mike is fine. Through his sobs, David tries to apologize, but Mike won't hear of it, quieting him with a kiss on the nose and sitting down with him on the edge of the bed. For the next few minutes, they cuddle together until David’s headache lessens and his breathing finally works. His eyes can now see straight, and it's then he notices the bruise on Mike's head. "What happened to you?"

"RPG," Mike said. "Tried to use it and it didn't go well." David starts to stand to grab the medkit but Mike stops him. "Don't worry, I got some stuff." From his pocket he pulls out a small box of band-aids and ointment. “Stopped at the medbay on the way before MacCallan found me and told me you were throwing up in the bathroom.”

As David goes about his business tending to the wound, Mike launches into a full lecture, recalling his injury adventure. "We get to this building, alright? And our one guy left that knows how to use the RPG gets shot and so he's being treated off to the side. And normally, this isn't a problem, but there's a fuckton of sentries shooting at us and we can't really find cover that allows us to safely shoot back. So I pick up the RPG—got no idea what the fuck I'm doing—and I fire it and BAM! The bitch recoils and smacks my face. The rocket? Hits the building. Whole place cascades on itself. No baddies left alive and if they are, they sure as hell ain't digging themselves out of that mess. After the whole thing’s finished, the general got all pissed at me for nearly screwing the mission over."

"You should have trained for the RPG when you got the chance," David says, having finished his job and moved to sit next to Mike. "Maybe that wouldn't have happened.”

"Eh, YOLO," Mike replies. He coaxes David to lay down with him, the two tangling their limbs together. "Besides, the same could go for you. You've gone a full week without your anxiety meds. You gotta get that shit refilled."

"I know..." he just hasn't gone because a trip to the pharmacy meant leaving the _Obama._ "Will you come with me? I'll get them tomorrow."

"Unless China attacks the world, I won't have anything better to do tomorrow."

"Thank you."

They lay there for a long time, Mike finally closing his eyes and starting to doze off. David himself feels tired but he isn't ready to sleep yet, still convincing himself Mike won't leave while he sleeps. He slides a little closer, resting his head against Mike's chest. The rhythmic pumping of Mike's heartbeat calms him down until he too gives in to exhaustion.

"I missed you," David whispers.

"Really?" Mike murmurs, half asleep. "Couldn't tell."

"Shut up."

Mike chuckles. "Missed you too."

_'He said he'd be back. And he kept his promise. Of course he would. Mike always keeps his promises.'_

**Author's Note:**

> Mike is best boyfriend. Change my mind. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to drop a comment/kudos. Or don't. Up to you!


End file.
